


Premeditation

by sunsetmog



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, drunken bet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-11
Updated: 2004-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orlando wants Dom. Dom's being an idiot. Liv makes a drunken bet with Dom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Premeditation

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/8085.html) in April 2004.

The kiss was premeditated. 

A dare.

A drunken challenge, accepted and signed for with the aid of vodka and beer.

* * * Drunk

It is Liv's idea; something she dreams up because of lots of alcohol and a childish desire to set a bizarre series of events in motion. Liv always likes to give the first domino a push and then sit back and watch how all the others fall. She claps her hands in glee, and she's laughing as she leans over towards Dom, touching him lightly on the shoulder. He turns to her, and laughs, his mouth wide and his tongue wet with beer. 

Orlando is watching her talk although his vantage point is less than comfortable; his head is resting on the table, and through (too many) empty bottles, he watches her red mouth and her pink tongue darting in and out. She's leaning up against Elijah, and his eyes are wide and blue, as bloody usual. Blue is Orlando's favourite colour, and sometimes (well, usually when he's drunk, and the eyes draw his attention like the brightest stars in the night sky) he wishes his eyes were something other than brown. He knows that a natural change is almost definitely impossible, and whilst berating himself for the apparent contradiction of his own thought processes, his mind wanders back to those days on the old set when he could stare in the mirror and pretend his eyes really were blue. He forgets that contacts make his eyes water and that his eye drops made his makeup run. But his mind has strayed from the matter in hand.

"Come on, guys, it'll be fun..." 

Orlando hears the word 'fun' and decides it is about bloody time he paid attention to what was being said at the table. He likes fun. "I want fun." He mutters, and someone (Sean probably) pats him on the shoulder. 

"It won't be fun, it'll be embarrassing." Dom is muttering, downing the remains of his bottle. He is sat next to Orlando, and his knee nudges Orlando's under the table. "Back me up here, Orli, tell the girl it's a stupid idea."

"I, my good friend, am drunk." Orlando mumbles. His lack of participation in the conversation is most definitely through personal choice and not from an inability to form words. Orlando is _choosing_ not to take part in this conversation, mostly because he wants another drink and frankly, he is paying far too much attention to the pressure of Dom's knee on his own. He decides he quite likes the way it feels and nudges back. 

Dom's leg is quickly removed, and Dom shifts in his chair so he's further away from the table. Orlando has come to realise that when stupidly drunk, he tends to do things he wouldn't necessarily do when sober. Drunken movements usually involve clinging on to Dom (under the general pretence of requiring Dom's assistance in order to stay upright) and hands straying to areas where male hands didn't normally touch. Drunken movements always end when Dom realises that he has an Orli attached and pulls gently away, removing his Orli and re-attaching him to other, more suitable objects. Chairs. Tables. Taxis. This constant disentanglement of Orli and Dom causes Orlando considerable heartache, especially as he is fully aware that the aforesaid disentanglement is only caused by Dom being a bit of an idiot. He attempts to tell Dom this, but Dom only raises an eyebrow.

"I am not an idiot." He tells Orlando, and Orlando rolls his eyes because quite clearly he is, he keeps removing his Orli. Orlando is watching Dom talk now, seeing that pink tongue dart in and out of white teeth. "Just because you're drunk, that doesn't necessarily mean that you can't disagree to something which is quite obviously a stupid idea." This last bit is directed towards Liv, who waggles her eyebrows and grins. 

"I've never seen you refuse a dare before, Dominic." 

"This is not a proper dare, Liv." Dom tells her, downing the remains of his pint. 

Liv sticks her tongue out. "I'm daring you, Dom. That makes it a proper dare."

"Liv, this so-called bloody dare is only because you want to see me make a fool of myself. I lose either way." Orlando doesn't know what the dare is, but he thinks Dom should agree to it. He tries to tell Dom this, but Dom only grins and removes Orlando's arm from where it has slid around his waist. "You haven't got a fucking clue what we're talking about, Bloom," Dom laughs, and Orlando shrugs. He doesn't care, so long as he's here and Dom is _there_ and there is the possibility of touching.

"Orlando isn't refusing the dare, Dom." It is Elijah's voice that permeates the woolly mass that is Orlando's brain. 

Orlando briefly feels something akin to worry, but unfortunately, Orlando's worry mechanism is situated unhealthily close to the area of his brain utterly devoted and completely dedicated to satisfying and quenching Orlando's thirst, and Orlando, being very drunk and concentrating rather more than is normally considered healthy on Dominic, slightly misinterprets the brainwaves. "Is anyone going to the bar?" he asks, and it's the first vaguely recognisable and coherent sentence he's managed in the past half hour. It's enough to reduce the table to silence, as Elijah, Dom, Liv and Sean are all blinking in his direction. He likes people looking at him, despite having a beer mat stuck to his cheek, and he drops some notes on the table. "I'll pay." With something resembling a snort, Dom takes the money and runs. Orlando knows that Dom has gone because he is a pillock, and he doesn't recognise a good thing in a personal Orli when he sees one. He wonders haphazardly if Dom will ever stop being a bit of a plonker and will see the benefit of attaching himself to Orlando. Orli shrugs. Things are boring when Dom isn't at the table. He's feeling a little sleepy, and he decides to rest his eyes until Dom comes back. Then, Orlando will tell Dom that he's being a berk and that Dom should take him home right this instant and lick him all over. 

* * * Pain

Orlando opens one eye, blinks, and decides to save the other eye the bother. It isn't worth the effort. With a tiny movement southwards, he attempts to manoeuvre the duvet over his head so the dark will come back. Orlando likes the dark, especially on an occasion such as this, when he cannot quite remember where he is or just how he got there, but he recognises that there is Pain, and that his tongue is superglued to the roof of his mouth. 

This is Not Good. He needs a piss. Orlando weighs up the pros and cons of staying under the duvet—where it is dark, and warm, and he won't fall over—and exiting from said duvet, and having to face the light. 

Orlando is _not_ a fan of the light. He does, however, have to go to the toilet. And soon. And so he is faced with a conundrum, and he feels it is a little early for brainteasers. Something out there doesn't like Orlando. Well, Orlando reasons, that's just fine because Orlando doesn't like him back. He sighs.

Wetting the bed doesn't seem like a good option. Facing the light doesn't seem like a good option. 

Orlando thinks his life is more complicated than people realise. 

* * * Hungover

It is only a matter of time (a couple of hours and a bit of a snooze) before Orlando begins to contemplate just what happened the previous night. He has no recollection of getting back to his hotel room, and even less idea how he managed to remove his shoes (they're complicated enough when he hasn't drunk enough vodka to grind Russia's economy to a halt) and tuck himself up in bed. Furthermore, there is a packet of alka seltzer and two ibuprofen tablets by the bed, alongside a bottle of water (with the lid loosened) from the mini bar. 

Orlando knows himself too well. If he _had_ managed to break into the mini bar the previous night, the last thing he would have helped himself to was bloody water. And no, he couldn't spot any empty Smirnoff miniatures rolling about the floor. He could check the bin to be sure, but he is buggered if he is going to get out of bed just to look for evidence. Furthermore, he is fairly sure he wouldn't be able to make it across the (very bright, light and airy) room without injuring himself in some excruciating manner. Orlando doesn't particularly like enduring unnecessary hurt, despite his predilection for standing right in front of Pain and waving and shouting 'over here! Come and get me if you think you're hard enough' at regular intervals. He is fairly adamant (the contradiction of his thought processes never fails to amuse him, and again, he grins) that he was not in a position last night to fully comprehend the horror of the coming morning, and as such, he has to conclude that the water and the pills were not down to him. 

That leaves a rather interesting question floating in the air, and if Orlando was more cogent, then he might well be aware of it. At this point in time, however, Orlando is much more concerned with why the duvet wasn't over his head blocking out that rather nasty light, and wondering why he only had one sock on. 

* * * Headache  
Orlando wakes up when he realises that the loud banging is not his own brain berating him for drinking _far_ too much, but the sound of fists rapping on his bedroom door. 

"Orlando, you stupid fucker, get your fat arse out of bed and let me in."

It is Dom. 

Dom. 

Orlando's eyes widen. He has a faint recollection of trying to get Dominic naked using only his teeth, and of Dominic detaching himself. As always. Dominic putting him to bed. Shit. 

Orlando wonders if he were to pull the duvet back over his head, the world (Dominic) would go away and leave him alone. 

"Bloom! If you don't fucking let me in, I'll break the bloody door down and I'm not sodding paying for it. We've got a premiere to get to."

Orlando peeps out from under the covers. He could do without his accountant forwarding another sky-high hotel bill to him, with the offending articles highlighted in pink. Why, why, why was he such a fuckwit? "Dom?" he croaks. He wonders why, on the morning after the night before, he always sounds like a cigarette-smoking frog. Such things only serve to baffle him further, and Orlando demands that the sun please turn itself off so that he can make his way (crawl) across the room and open the door. 

"Open the door, Bloom."

"Coming." Orlando sits on the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes. His head hurts. Not that Orlando notices, of course, he's too busy wondering just what day it is and why Dominic is thumping at his door at such a ridiculously early hour of the morning. And he's only got one sock on. Where did the other one go, he wonders, as he attempts to put one foot in front of the other to get across the room. 

Sock. 

Bare toes.

Sock. 

Bare toes. 

Oooh, shiny. Well that's where his watch got to, anyway. 

He opens the door a crack, and finds Dom, standing outside, hands on hips, tapping his foot and raising an eyebrow. 

"Five minutes," Dom tells Orlando, pushing past him to get into the room. 

Orlando narrows his eyes. 

"Five minutes I've been standing there, looking like a right idiot, trying to get in here."

Orlando blinks. "Morning Dom." Dom is looking very dapper this morning, all charcoal suit and blonde, blonde hair. Mussy. Orlando likes that look. Shaggable. He contemplates mussing Dom's hair a little, but then remembers that Dominic spends _hours_ perfecting the 'I don't give a damn how my hair looks, this is how I woke up, _honestly_ , I don't even own a brush' look. Orlando doesn't need that sort of rejection so early in the day. 

Dom grins, shakes his head, and looks Orlando up and down. "I'd forgotten about your hungover time delay."

"It wasn't five minutes." Orlando tells him, patiently. Dom is such an exaggerator. If Orlando weren't completely and utterly head over heels in love with him, this would grate a little on his nerves. He closes the bedroom door behind them both, and chews on his thumb nail.

His eyes widen. He stops chewing. 

"I'm _not_ head over heels in love with you." Orlando mumbles, rubbing his eyes with his fists. Whoever invented alcohol should be given a prize. Whoever invented the sun should be taken outside and shot. 

Dom opens his mouth. Closes it again. "I'm very glad to hear that, Orl." He mutters, and smiles. His eyes don't shine, and Orlando wonders why. In the clear (painful) light of day, Dom's eyes usually remind him of the night sky, and Orlando has always prided himself on his poetic talent. He'd hate to be wrong. "It should make today a whole lot easier, on both of us." Dom shakes his head, eyes Orlando up and down, and wanders off into the bathroom. 

* * * Wet  
Orlando hopes to God that he packed his sunglasses. If not, they are definitely stopping at a shop on the way. There is no sodding way he's facing the world without some form of eye protection, else the world may be party to his head exploding and the brain melting, or, in more real terms, his head will hurt for the whole day and he'll want to crawl back into bed, and there'll be all of these photos of him with bloodshot eyes. Not good for the old self-image, that. 

He doesn't really know how long he's been stood under the faucet, rubbing his eyes and waiting for his brain to come back into focus. It's only when Dom bangs on the bathroom door and tells him to 'get a fucking move on, arsewipe', that Orlando realises that he's been staring off into space. 

Orlando groans. If it wasn't enough that he had the worst hangover the world has ever seen, now he's saddled with bloody awful realisation that the reason that he keeps trying to get into Dominic's (rather nice, shapely) trousers is because he's fucking in love with him. Bugger. Not just cos he was horny, then. 

It explained a few things. 

The dreams, for a start. And then the waking. Waking up hugging a rather large cuddly Piglet and mumbling 'Dommie' could have been a bit of a clue, Orlando supposes, reaching for the shower gel and whacking his elbow off the door as he does so. "Fuck..." he hisses, and wonders why he bought the Piglet in the first place. His favourite has always been Tigger (and he can do a mean 'bouncing is what tiggers do best' impression if the vodka has been running freely enough), but Dom was kind of little and when it had been cold, he'd wrapped himself in a scarf and bounced and spoken of heffalumps and woozels, and Orlando couldn't help but wander (rush) into the Disney shop the next time he'd accidentally (on purpose) gone shopping in that general area (specific street) and pick up the first (most Dom-like, took a bit of choosing) of the piglets on offer. 

Orlando rests his forehead on the tiled wall. He is the saddest damn fucker on the whole planet right about now, he realises, and resolves to chuck the soft toy in the bin the next time he sees it. 

"Orlando Bloom, we have got to go!" Dom thumps on the door again, "Or do you want me to come in there and get you?"

Orlando raises an eyebrow. _Yes please_. "No, I'm just coming," he shouts over the pound of the water, and decides that today he is going to be manly. He's going to bang heads along with the rest of the Real Men, and not complain about seeing stars or any of that guff. He's going to drink pints and not sidle off to the cocktail end of the bar and demand 'anything as long as it comes with an umbrella'. And he certainly, completely, definitely, totally is _not_ going to get utterly wankered and spend the day clinging on to Dom like a limpet in the vain hope that with perseverance comes the perfect shag. 

* * * Noise  
There was one thing they hadn't bothered to warn him about at drama school. Probably because they assumed he was as dim as a 40-watt bulb and had as little chance of making it as Shane Richie had of getting a role in _Eastenders_. Well, Orlando reasons, closing his eyes and thanking management for hiring a nice car with nice dark windows for the ride, him and Shane had both showed them. His brain nudges him, and Orlando scrambles to remember the point in hand; that they hadn't bothered to warn him about the noise. Hundreds of screaming fans played havoc with the eardrums, and it was all Orlando could do to stay upright when he got out of the car and the first wave of screams hit him. 

"Are you ready for this, Orli?" Dom had asked as the car pulled up.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Orlando had muttered in reply, adjusting his tie and running his fingers through his hair in preparation. 

But now, Orlando grins, and his eyes meet Dom's. Dom is stood, a few steps in front of him, waving at the crowd, but all the time watching Orlando. He pats his pocket to check for his black marker pen, and moves towards the crowds. 

Autographs. The scourge of the wrist of the star. Orlando loves being loved, he revels in it; but today his eyes hurt and his head aches, and it's all he can do to keep a smile plastered across his face as he moves along the crash barriers, picking photos and autograph books out of the crowd at random. 

His grin wavers as he sees how many people he's still got to get through before he can disappear into the safety, warmth and darkness of the cinema. Orlando hopes he'll be able to sit next to Dom for the screening, and won't have to make serious conversation with someone who has no respect for his poor, aching head. He's never drinking again, he tells himself with some force. He needs to sit down, and he needs to do it soon. _Very soon_. Before he falls over.

* * * Support  
The feel of arms sliding around his waist causes Orlando to freeze. "What the fu..." he mutters, stopping himself just in time. He twists round to see Dom staring at him, ruefully, from beneath dark lashes. Dom's hands encircle him, pressing gently on his stomach. No way out, even if he were stupid enough to want one. 

"I _told_ you this was a stupid bet," Dom mumbles, his eyes flicking to the crowd and back to Orlando.

_Bet?_

And then Dom presses his lips to Orlando's, and the words are lost somewhere between the two of them, leaving only a gentle fuzziness on Orlando's tongue and the taste of peppermint from Dom's gum. 

The kiss is nothing, really, and Orlando realises that. He's had more explorative kisses with his drama teacher. And it doesn't last more than five seconds. It's just the press of dry lips to dry lips, the feel of warm breath against his mouth and the increasing pressure of Dom's fingers on his stomach. Dom's stubble scratches Orlando's chin as he pulls away, face pale against the flash of photography bulbs. 

For a second, Orlando stares at Dom, his eyes round. 

He licks his lips. 

Dom watches, his eyes concentrating on one spot only. The threat of pink tongue. 

Dom smiles, meeting Orlando's eyes briefly. His tongue sneaks out and licks the tip of Orlando's nose, "I'll see you inside, Orli," he mumbles, winking, and Orlando is left with the impression of fingers on his jacket, and a damp spot on the end of his warm nose. 

* * * Inside   
"So, what do you win?" Orlando asks, as soon as he's inside and finds Dom resting against the wall around the corner from the entrance.

Dom's hands are thrust deep into his pockets, and he's kicking at the carpet with the polished toe of his shoe. 

"What?"

"I'm assuming you took on that bet for a reason." Orlando shrugs, taking his place leaning against the wall next to Dom. His aching head rests against the curtain behind him. His hand brushes against Dom's. 

Dom turns to look at Orlando, and grins. "Do you remember anything about last night, Orli?"

"Not particularly. My head does though; it's fucking killing me. It's remembering every last sodding drink."

"And there are a lot to remember," Dom laughs, and the sound echoes around Orlando's head. He doesn't remember more than the first few.

"Fuck off, Monaghan. Are you going to tell me the terms of this bet, or what?"

"I'd rather not."

Orlando raises an eyebrow. "Why not?" His fingers gingerly reach for his brow, and press softly on the hairline.

"Are you alright?" Dom asks.

"Headache. I'm never fucking drinking again." Orlando explains, and his gaze shifts to the stream of people entering the cinema screen. "We'd better go in. You can forget that rubbish about not telling me later on."

Dom shrugs, smiles, and leads the way. 

* * * Darkness  
The film is good, no doubt about that, (and Orlando can say that regardless of the fact he's now seen it thirty eight million times) but he isn't in the mood. He can't even concentrate on it for more than five minutes, continually shifting in his seat to try and find a comfortable place to rest his aching head. 

It wouldn't do to start snoring at such an occasion as this, so Orlando is attempting (as best he can, when all he wants to do is take up residence under the duvet and sleep for about another twenty four hours) not to fall asleep, and instead, to concentrate on the matter in hand. The film. Not the close proximity of Dominic and the memory of a single, solitary, chaste kiss. A bet. 

"Will you stop it?" Dom asks finally, in a hushed voice. 

"Stop what?" Orlando whispers, scratching at his trousers.

"Moving. Just stop it, else I may be forced to kill you."

"I don't feel very well." Orlando mutters, and that's got Dominic's attention. 

"Feeling like you're going to be sick, or just rough as a hungover dog?"

"Rough as," Orlando admits, and then they're both shushed by an executive turning round from the row in front. Orlando bites his lip. 

Dom sighs, and taps his feet on the carpet. He sighs again, and reaches over for Orlando's hand, the fingers intertwining against the dark velvet of the armrest. "You'll be alright," he mumbles, "Just squeeze if you think you're gonna be sick, and we'll head for the toilets."

Orlando thinks that this might be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to him. He smiles, his head aching and his stomach churning, and rests his head on Dom's shoulder. Dom shifts slightly, and his lips find Orlando's forehead. "Y'big lightweight." Dom mutters, his breath warm against Orlando's temple.

Orlando shuffles a little closer in his seat. He'll have a go at Dom about that clearly unsubstantiated comment at a later date. When he isn't concentrating on other, slightly more important things. 

* * * Hungry  
The thing about being spectacularly hungover, is that there comes a point when bacon, egg and chips, (or a kebab) suddenly becomes the most alluring foodstuff on the planet. The desire for substantial amounts of fried food comes upon Orlando half way through a moan about the state of his head, when him and Dom are standing in the doorway of the bar, Dom's hand resting proprietarily on his shoulder. 

"I'm hungry." Orlando is leaning against Dominic, his fingers resting on Dom's hip, ignoring the raised eyebrows and stifled smirks of their friends. 

Dom raises an eyebrow. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"Come with me to find chips?" Orlando shrugs. "Unless you want to discuss the terms of the bet here, in front of everyone?"

Liv raises an eyebrow, "You haven't told him yet?" She asks Dom, smiling. "Do you want me to?"

Dom takes hold of Orlando's elbow, and steers him in the general direction of the door. "No thank you, Liv." He says firmly, "I'm perfectly capable of embarrassing myself, thanks."

"Good." Orlando grins. "Then, after you've explained that to me, you can explain why you've been turning me down for bloody months. Then, after that, you can explain why _this morning_ you told me it was a good thing I wasn't in love with you. Then..."

"Shut up, Bloom." Dom shakes his head, "Or you can go find chips all by yourself."

Orlando shuts up. 

* * * Bed  
Orlando wakes up slowly, cuddling Piglet and murmuring 'Dommie'. 

A hairy Piglet.

A hairy _moving_ Piglet. 

Dominic would be forgiven for killing Orlando at this point, because Orlando pushing him out of the bed and yelling "Fucking hell" wakes him up quite abruptly.

Orlando sticks his head over the side of the bed. "Sorry, Dom," he mumbles. "Thought Piglet had come alive."

Dominic decides not to ask. He just takes Orlando's proffered hand and climbs back into bed, not saying anything until he's firmly ensconced back under the duvet. "You're insane, you know that?" he murmurs. 

" _I'm_ insane?" Orlando takes offence at that, and shifts away from Dom's warm hands. "I'm not the one who made such a stupid fucking bet."

"It wasn't a stupid bet." Dom reaches for Orlando again, his fingers curling around Orlando's shoulder. "I won either way."

Orlando raises an eyebrow. "Kiss me in public or have Liv tell me you were in love with me? And you picked 'kiss me in public' as the lesser of two evils?" 

"So, I'm an idiot. Big deal. Still ended up naked in bed with you."

Orlando shrugs. "True." His fingers follow the trail of hair that meanders its way down Dom's flat stomach. "Doesn't explain why you've been turning me down all these months though, does it? That makes you an even bigger idiot."

Dom grins, and leans over to lick Orlando's nose. "You've got a nice nose," he tells Orlando, "Lickable."

"Stop trying to distract me with compliments." 

Dom kisses him, and he tastes like spearmint. 

"You may as well just tell me, cos I'm not going to stop asking," Orlando informs him, as Dom licks his way down Orlando's throat. "Not even," he squeaks, and then blushes, because squeaking is possibly the least manly noise he's ever had the misfortune to make, "not even if you bite me _there_." 

"You were always drunk," Dom explains, kissing his way up Orlando's warm belly. "Didn't want you to regret it in the morning."

Orlando laughs. "You are joking, right?"

Dom shakes his head, and the stubble scratches against Orlando's cheek. "Nope."

"Well then you're a bigger idiot than I gave you credit for." 

"Well you're the idiot in love with me." 

"True." Orlando shrugs, and kisses Dom, warm and wet and hot. "Guess we're two idiots together, then."

Dominic pulls the duvet up over them both, and Orlando's fingers tighten in his hair, and his breath is hot against his mouth. "Yep," he breathes, "two idiots together."


End file.
